


Christmas Cookies

by dragonofdispair



Series: Unrelated Prompt Responses [54]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Drabbles, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 16,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/pseuds/dragonofdispair
Summary: Countdown to Christmas with twenty-four short Christmas stories about Prowl and Jazz. No plot, no porn, just sugar and fluff. Like Christmas cookies.





	1. December First

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dreams of a (Black and) White Christmas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718106) by [Rizobact](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact). 



> THIS IS ALL RIZ’S FAULT! 
> 
> Writing these as I go, so I have no idea what’s all going to happen. Unbeta'd. The goal is to post one a day... and make sure Riz posts hers every day too. XD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I know we hate each other, but it’s Christmas Eve and your flight was cancelled. Please come inside.

Prowl prodded the still form with his baton. Loitering was illegal, and if the mech hadn't already frozen to death, he would in short order.

"G'way, Prowler," Jazz groaned, weakly swatting at the baton. Prowl couldn't help it; his doorwings sagged with relief. The mech wasn't dead. "S'the Feast o' Primus. Jus' let a mech sleep."

"You cannot sleep here."

"Don't got nowhere else t'sleep, mech."

"I thought you would be spending the holiday with your brother Ricochet, at home in Polyhex."

"Train was cancelled. Go _away."_

Prowl narrowed his optics as Jazz curled back up on himself, plating clamped tight against the cold. Only a thin blanket provided any sort of barrier against the cold. It wouldn't be enough.

Jazz was a street performer, petty thief, pickpocket, gambler, con artist and general pain in Prowl's aft. He knew Jazz pretty well just because he'd filled out the paperwork to arrest him so many times he had all the mech's relevant details saved to his hard drive. There were times Prowl felt like Jazz got in trouble on purpose, just to annoy Prowl. Feeling was mutual. As far as Jazz was concerned, Prowl existed for the sole purpose of making Jazz's life difficult. But that didn't mean Prowl was going to leave him sleeping in the park to die.

He prodded Jazz again. "Sleeping in the park is illegal. Get up."

Jazz groaned again, but pulled himself slowly to his feet, shaking off the icicles that had already gathered on his armor in Praxus' cold air. He shivered as he settled the blanket around his shoulders, then grabbed the case containing his crystal-sax (and his thieves' tools, Prowl knew). "Fine... You wanna spend th' Feast o' Primus filling out paperwork just so I can spend the holiday in jail, let's get started."

That... was exactly what Prowl _should_ do. But he wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect either. "You're not going to jail."

"Huh..wha?" Jazz looked back at him.

Prowl really couldn't believe he was doing this but, "Promise you won't steal anything, and you can spend the holiday at my apartment."

He watched what he'd said slowly dawn on Jazz. His he-didn't-really-say-that look slowly replaced by wonder. Suddenly excited, he skipped ahead of the officer. Yes he already knew where Prowl lived; Prowl wasn't surprised at all. "Sure! I can promise that!"

"And I'm changing the security code once you're gone."


	2. December Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I got you for Secret Santa, so I got you this really expensive but sentimental gift that you’ve always wanted, hoping you’ll never find out it’s from me - and that I’ve been in love with you 1,234,567 years.

Muahahahahaha! Jazz _loved_ Earth! He loved Christmas! Specifically he loved the Annual Autobot Secret Santa™!

Come on seriously... This was _right_ up Jazz's alley! How else could he _possibly_ justify an Autobot-sized ugly sweater for Sunstreaker? And then _he had to wear it!_ Or truck testicles for Ironhide? Or a custom stylus that said "Get Crap Done" for Prowl? Or the entire Secret Santa spending limit in _pennies_ for Red Alert? Flavored lube for Prime! And of course there was Jazz's yearly "gift" to the Decepticons to keep them occupied while the Autobots celebrated. This year… hint: saltwater and saltwater taffy did not actually mix very well, especially when Jazz used said saltwater to stick the taffy to every exposed surface of the _Nemesis’_ interior. Muahahahaha! This holiday "tradition" was _made_ for the Autobots' pranking corps.

Naturally Sideswipe et al gave as good as they got. Jazz still had a "Zero to Naked in 6.2 Beers!" bumper sticker on his fender, though Prowl had slowly confiscated all of his 103,682 rubber bouncy balls. And Ratchet got a foam wrench from whoever had his name each year, in the hopes that one of these days he'd run out of real ones to throw, which Ratchet thought was hilarious. And the Chia Pets! ALL THE CHIA PETS!

Of course there were those boring fussy-duds who insisted on giving their fellow Autobots _useful_ things. Hound got automatic exotic plants or gardening paraphernalia almost every year. Which Hound thought was awesome, given how much he _liked_ gardening. He usually adopted the Chia Pets too. Crazy mech.

This year, Jazz had gotten together with Sideswipe to make Wheeljack an enormous candy dildo made from crystallized energon.

Jazz fragging _loved_ Christmas.

He wondered what he'd gotten this year, and from whom. (He rather hoped it was from Smokescreen. Jazz had shamelessly hacked everyone's internet histories and Smokescreen was getting _someone_ sixty or seventy Furbies and Jazz could think of _all sorts of trouble_ he could cause with that many Furbies, only some of it for his fellow Autobots. Those were a thing he'd _love_ to regift to the Decepticons.)

It made Christmas morning a laugh riot all the way through.

Sideswipe passed Jazz his gift with a saucy grin and Jazz thought maybe the red frontliner had been the one to draw Jazz's name again this year. That was fine. Sideswipe's gifts were always funny, and he was one of the few who had managed to hide what he was buying from Jazz's mad skillz, so it'd actually be a _surprise._

Carefully he shook the present, watching the crowd of interested Autobots from the corner of his visor. Was Bluestreak more interested than usual, or was Jazz over thinking things?

Oh well. Enough of that. Jazz tore into the paper with enthusiasm and opened the lid, which he was fully prepared to explode with confetti...

...It didn't.

Jazz stared down at the contents of the box. It was a replica. It _had_ to be a replica.

Because he'd buried the pieces of his original electric sitar in the rust outside Iacon, after he had survived the first Decepticon attack on the city and his band hadn't...

Except no replica would have that bright scar in the metal where Ricochet had accidentally whacked it against one of the stage speakers, or that odd colored tile in the fret pattern where he'd replaced it right after he'd started playing professionally... And now that he looked closely, he could see the faint weld lines where whoever-it-was had repaired the metal, then buffed the resulting repairs to near-invisibility…

Who would have done something like _this?_


	3. December Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: SNOWBALL FIGHTS!

Jazz stealth ninja’d his way through the enemy’s fortifications. Defensive walls, ammunition stores, a guard rotation that changed patrol patterns every two kliks on average, and a multitude of traps laid to catch unwary spies. It wasn’t like sneaking through Shockwave’s labs; it was _worse._

Prowl really was taking this whole “snowball war” way too seriously.

The fact that Prowl and his team were _winning_ was completely beside the point. Using a tactical computer to organize a snowball fight was unfair and Prowl knew it! Obviously tacticians didn’t care one whit about the rules of honorable combat. It was a serious breach of Autobot ethics!

The only chance Jazz’s ragtag group of freedom fighters had against Prowl’s snow-empire of doom was if Jazz managed to assassinate their leader. Without Prowl, the enemy would lose all coordination and fall apart. They hoped.

Prowl obviously knew he was the lynchpin though. And just which of his enemies would be sneaking through the snow to take him out. Hence the patrols and the traps and the fact that he’d used red food coloring to dye all the walls red so that neither Jazz’s normal black and white paint, nor his camo-mesh silver, had a scraplet’s chance in a smelter of blending in.

Those were the downsides.

The upside: Prowl’s doorwings made for a _great_ target to aim at once he got into range.

Jazz hesitated only a moment. Prowl was surrounded by his top officers. The plan was to wait until he could get Prowl alone, take him out, then signal Prime so he could lead the charge through the walls, but none of them had expected to catch Prowl in a tactical meeting with his two lieutenants. Jazz could, maybe, if he was lucky, manage to take out Prowl, Ratchet and Wheeljack all at once, but if he did, he definitely wouldn’t get out of Prowl’s snow fort of doom unfrozen.

Meh. Whatever. Totally worth it.

With a war-cry that echoed across the whole battlefield Jazz charged, already throwing snowballs.

SPLAT! Hehe… that was a doorwing. SPLAT! Woot! Wheeljack in the facemask! Ten points. SPLAT! HA HA! Expression on Ratchet’s face was TOTALLY WORTH IT!

Doorwing wasn’t a fatal injury. Prowl snatched up a snowball from one of his countless stores and smooshed it into Jazz’s bumper right as Jazz tackle-glomped him, sending them both flying into a red-dyed snow-wall, burying them both.

“AUTOBOTS! FOR FREEDOM AND SNOW!” Prime’s voice bellowed and Jazz giggled. Man, that charge would have been something to behold. Too bad he was buried in snow and couldn’t see it. Next time.

Prowl just sighed. “I can’t even calculate how you managed to sneak in this time.”

He’d bribed Cliffjumper and threatened Smokescreen, but he wasn’t about to tell Prowl that. He grinned, though it was too dark under all this snow to see it. “The Magic of Christmas, lover.”

Jazz couldn’t see it, but he was _sure_ that had been Prowl looking downward briefly, praying for patience.


	4. December Fourth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hi we’re neighbours, and omg are you alright? I could smell cooking/burning - whoaaa now that’s just embarrassing. step aside I’ll handle this.

Jazz waited for Prowl to put down the tray before speaking. “If y’needed high-yield plastique sticky grenades fer somethin’, y’know I would’ve made some fer ya on th’ sly.”

Prowl’s doorwings shot up as the mech stiffened and spun. “Jazz! Get out of my quarters!”

“Nuh-uh,” Jazz drawled in response. “First ya tell me why ya felt th’need t’make those yerself, instead’a comin’ t’me or Wheeljack.”

The Praxan’s doorwings drooped. “You’re not joking are you?”

“Not this time.” Was Prowl saying that he hadn’t _meant_ to make plastique sticky grenades? Jazz sauntered over to the tactician’s workspace to examine the explosives. They were definitely high-yield plastique sticky grenades, if odd looking two-toned ones, with a layer of lighter, more transparent blue over a layer of darker, almost opaque blue energon. Nothing else had that _smell_ right out of the oven. That was how he’d caught on to what Prowl was doing: their quarters shared a wall, and thus an air vent. The vents around the Autobots’ Second and Third in commands’ quarters may have been small enough that a snake would’ve had trouble navigating them, but that scent had managed. “It’s a very distinctive smell.”

Looking over the workspace, Jazz couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Prowl might have been trying to do instead. A supply of midgrade — two different grades, hence the two different colors — and a gelling agent, powdered iron oxide, powdered aluminum, magnesium sprinkles. Looked like a textbook exercise from _The (Cybertronian) Terrorists’ Handbook_ on how to brew explosives from kitchen supplies.

Fortunately this recipe was pretty stable, or else Prowl might’ve blown himself to kingdom come. That was why it was one of Jazz’s favorites. Didn’t go off until it was meant to go off. Unless someone introduced water to the mix, something Earth’s atmosphere made a lot more likely than Cybertron’s. Still not _very_ likely, given they were inside the _Ark,_ but it was a lot higher than the zero-percent chance there’d been last time Jazz had been able to make these. Water had a tendency to make them go off spontaneously.

When Jazz didn’t retract his statement, as he examined the workspace, Prowl’s doorwings drooped further. “I suppose I should dispose of those then.”

“I’ll take care’a it,” Jazz promised. This particular mix burned even under water and in the void of space — another reason Jazz liked it so much. Dip them in acrylic to protect them from the water, add some detonators, and he’d have a nasty surprise for the Decepticons next time he had business in the _Nemesis._ “What were y’tryin’ t’do.”

“I was attempting to recreate some treats I remembered from Praxus,” Prowl said sadly. “They were very popular around holidays, and I thought that since we finally had the energon to spare…” _You thought you’d try and recreate a happy memory,_ Jazz filled in when Prowl trailed off. “Nevermind. Obviously my memory isn’t as good as I thought it was on this subject.”

Jazz looked back at the ingredients again. Midgrade. Gelling agent. Aluminum. Magnesium. Iron Oxide. All of them were common treat ingredients by themselves; it was only the combination and the proportions that Prowl had used that turned them dangerous.

“Okay. We can do this. I’ll take care’a these,” Jazz picked up the tray of _treat sized_ grenades with one hand and unsubspaced a blank datapad with the other, “while _ya_ write out absolutely everything ya remember about these treats’a yers. When I come back, we’ll see about figurin’ out how to make them again without blowin’ up the officers’ quarters.”

Prowl looked torn between horrified and hopeful. “Surely… “ He trailed off again when Jazz didn’t crack a smile. “You’re still not joking.”

“Nope.” Wheeljack might’ve survived a blast like that — he had practice — but chances were they would have been scraping the pieces of Prowl off the far wall.  

“Perhaps I should simply give up on this endeavor. I cannot fathom how I might have made such a mistake.”

Jazz nudged Prowl gently. “None’a that now. Was an honest mistake and no harm done.” He sauntered to Prowl’s door. He’d be back in about half an hour or so. His own quarters had some of the acrylic coating he needed to make them safe to store; detonators could wait. “And I ain’t a bad pastry chef,” he wasn’t a professional or anything, but well… the _The (Cybertronian) Terrorists’ Handbook_ had given him the incentive to learn, if only so he could justify having the ingredients on hand. “I’ll grab some recipe books, and we’ll get yer treats figured out. Promise.”


	5. December Fifth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Person A seducing person A into taking a few steps back/backing them against the wall. (”Oh look. How did that mistletoe get right there?”)

Optimus had set up with a bundle of mistletoe right in one of the _Ark’s_ main thoroughfares and hadn’t budged most of the Christmas season, snatching up everyone he could for a thorough face-mashing. Mistletoe had practically sprouted in every doorway, in all the main rec areas (including the firing range), outside people’s quarters… kissing was the Autobots’ new favorite game ever.

Except Prowl, who had put that impressive tactical computer to the task of avoiding every single sprig of green or flash of white berries.

It was putting quite the chink in Jazz’s plans!

(Yes. Jazz could actually plan things. Shoosh you.)

Which, he’d finally decided was the problem. Jazz’s planning skills were absolute rubbish against Prowl’s and so it was time to employ a bit of tactical chaos!

Poof! went Jazz. Very suspicious. Wasn’t like him to miss a party like this! But Jazz disappeared all the time. He was probably sneaking around _Nemesis’_ air ducts. Making sure those nasty Cons didn’t ruin their upcoming Christmas party. That’s what everyone told Red Alert when he started to fritz about not having a camera-lens on the saboteur at all times. Laserbeak and Ravage (both sneaking around the _Ark’s_ air ducts at the time) could have told Red otherwise, if they’d had a chance to talk to the Security Director before being FedEx’d to Australia. That’d keep them out of the Autobots’ metaphorical hair for a while.

Watching Prowl directly was too risky, of course. Doorwings. Not just for drooling over and groping, they also housed some pretty sensitive sensors. Nothing that could _catch_ Jazz in the act, unless he got careless, and getting careless was all too common an occurrence for Jazz around Prowl. Also Jazz wasn’t going to compromise the security around their 2IC’s office and quarters just to indulge in a bit of drooling. That was important too. Secondary, but important.

But he knew Prowl’s habits, and he knew the crew’s. He’d get his opportunity, if he was patient.

Jazz _hated_ being patient. That was Prowl’s thing. To Jazz, being patient felt too much like work.

But patience was the the essential component of any good ambush, and this was arguably the most important ambush Jazz had ever set up so _patience!_

Finally though, the twins duct-taped Cliffjumper to the side of the rec room and hung Christmas lights to him. And while Ratchet cut the minibot down and wheeled the hissing, cussing bundle of sticky tape and red armor to the medbay to get the tape properly dissolved and removed, Prowl broke his pattern of careful mistletoe avoidance to yell at the twins.

He sent them to the brig, and for a minute was alone in the rec room, rubbing his chevron tiredly.

When he turned back, Jazz was there, between him and the door. Prowl’s doorwings went up in surprise.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Jazz said before the Praxan could ask about his mission. His nonexistent mission.

“Jazz,” Prowl said reasonably. “I certainly have not been avoiding you at all.”

Jazz just gave him a skeptical look, pointedly looked up and Prowl was hastily moving aside to get out from under the nonexistent mistletoe.

Prowl flushed, plating heating up in embarrassment of being caught out.

“So what’s the problem?” Jazz asked softly. “Don’t like kissing?” He took a step forward.

Prowl took a step back, barely realising he’d done it. “Kissing is a _human_ thing. There’s no reason for mechs to enjoy it at all.”

Step forward. Step back. By now Prowl had to realize Jazz was herding him; he was visibly looking for an escape route, but Jazz had the comms blocked and had managed to lock the doors before Prowl had noticed him. No interruptions.

Except maybe the nasty Cons, but with luck they were too busy looking for Ravage, Laserbeak and Buzzsaw (who’d been shipped to Moscow just that morning) to interrupt Jazz’s perfectly planned moment. It wasn’t often he got the drop on the tactician.

“Have you tried kissing?”

“No, nor do I wish to.”

Step. Step.

Step. Step.

Prowl’s doorwings hit the nearest wall. Jazz took one more step forward, standing bumper to bumper. Doorwings splayed out like a butterfly’s wings, Prowl was well and truly cornered now.

Jazz grinned. “You know… Wheeljack put mistletoe in all the garlands.”

“So he did,” Prowl said, with resignation, visibly steeling himself.

Which would not do at all. If Prowl didn’t want to kiss, there was no reason for Jazz to really press the issue. Not when he didn’t even know why Prowl didn’t want to try kissing. But Jazz was still not letting the trapped saboteur go until he’d said his piece. “How about an Eskimo kiss?”

Jazz relished the look of surprise in Prowl’s gold optics right before Jazz finished closing the distance between them and briefly brushed their noses together.

“How was that?” Jazz asked in a whisper, trying at the same time not to break the spell or be discouraged.

Prowl’s silence stretched long enough for discouragement to take over. Apparently this had been as dumb as a lot of Jazz’s ideas.

“It was fine,” Prowl finally whispered.

 _Fine_ wasn’t the best of answers Jazz could have hoped for, but it was enough for him to force the next bit out of his vocalizer. “How about going back to one of our quarters for something a bit more… Cybertronian?”

“I’d like that.”


	6. December Sixth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: You’re in the hospital for the holidays, so I came in while you were sleeping to decorate your room. I love you. Merry christmas.

“Prowl?” Jazz murmured groggily, fighting his way up from sedation.

The sounds that had woken him stopped, almost guiltily, and Jazz fought Ratchet’s medical programming even harder. Sudden silences meant someone was trying to be _sneaky_ and _sneaky_ equaled _threat…!_

Which Prowl knew perfectly well. “I’m here,” he said quietly, soothing Jazz’s hard-won survival codes, letting Jazz calm before he touched the saboteur’s hand first, then trailed his fingers up Jazz’s arm to cup his cheek gently.

“What’cha doin’?” Jazz said groggily. He still wasn’t _awake_ per se, but he was awake enough to consult his chrono and realize that it was the middle of the local night. Prowl almost never came after official visiting hours were over; too busy sleeping at his desk over a pile of work. It wasn’t _wrong,_ that Prowl was here. Not _so_ out of character that survival subroutines started throwing a fit, but it was odd.

Prowl, being Prowl, didn’t try and deny he was doing anything. “It’s a surprise.”

“Don’ like surprises,” Jazz drawled. He certainly wasn’t going back to sleep _now._

“I know,” Prowl acknowledged. Prowl’s hand pulled away and a moment later Jazz’s visor was placed in his hand. The movement was more awkward than it should have been because he was still sedated -- Ratchet’s programs were tenacious little fraggers -- but Jazz managed to put the visor on and power it up.

Snowflakes, tinsel and sparkles of every description had been strung up over half the medical isolation room. The other half was still bare. Of course Prowl took on decorating like covering a search pattern.

“Blue and white, lover?”

Autobot christmas was usually focused on the reds and greens. Both were very Autobot colors. Almost everyone liked them. The _other_ common Christmas color palette was usually avoided.

Prowl just shrugged. “I thought it would be useful for potential Christmas pranksters to be reminded when they came in the room that you are dangerous.”

“Decorating the room with the blood of my enemies fer Christmas?”

“Exactly.” Blue and white was usually avoided because energon was blue, and seeing it on the walls was disturbing for most bots. They had enough reminders of the war they were still in; they didn’t need their holiday decorations to resemble a room of mass carnage. Jazz and Prowl weren’t most bots though. Waking up with blue energon on the walls had always meant he’d won, he was safe, because all the threats were dead. He didn’t know what it meant to Prowl; he’d never asked, but he knew that Prowl had carried around an energon blue steelsilk blanket for as long as he’d known him. Usually they _pretended_ to be a bit closer to normal for the sake of their fellow mechs, but Prowl was obviously in a mood right now.

“Yer gonna drive people outta my room. No one’s gonna stay more than a few minutes,” Jazz complained.

“Then you can rest,” Prowl said smugly. “Have a quiet holiday for once.”

“Yer evil.”

“You love me for it.”


	7. December Seventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: YES! I BOOBY TRAPPED THE PRESENTS BECAUSE YOU DO THIS EVERY FUCKING YEAR!

Jazz lurked.

Granted, this wasn’t unusual at all. Most people didn’t _think_ of Jazz as a lurker. _Soundwave._ Now there was a bot absolutely everyone knew lurked. Soundwave was a total lurker. Shockwave… eh, maybe. Bot was a bit more of a _loom-er,_ but he could lurk decently well when he wanted to. Mirage! Mirage lurked. Invisibility and a tendency to use it rather indiscriminately… yeah, Mirage was a lurker. Even Sideswipe had a bit of a reputation as a lurker. Jazz? Jazz was a _bounder,_ a _dancer,_ a look-at-me-everyone _cavort-er._

This only emphasized just how _good_ a lurker Jazz really was.

Because it meant that when Jazz _lurked,_ he didn’t get _caught lurking._ Jazz won the sneakibot contest every time. BEST LURKER EVER! He even had a plaque.

Of course there was also the fact that Jazz almost never lurked around the _Ark._ He saved most of his designated lurking hours for use on the _Nemesis._ He didn’t decide to _randomly_ lurk. That probably had as much to do his lack of a lurky reputation as anything else.

But right now he was definitely on the _Ark._ He was also just as definitely _lurking._

He’d set a trap, see? He’d set a trap, baited it, and now he was waiting for his _favorite_ tactician to fall into it. And you couldn’t just _wait_ when watching for a tactician to fall into your trap. Nuh-uh. You had to _lurk_ or the tactician would see you waiting, surmise something was up, and then turn tail and run. Tacticians were canny prey like that.

(Theoretically, Jazz _could_ have set his trap, left, and then come back later to see what he’d caught, but where was the fun in that?)

Midnight. The witching hour. All good little Autobots were asleep in their beds, dreaming dreams of sugar and spice and whatever else Autobots dreamed of three nights before Christmas eve. Sugarplum fairies, maybe. Sure enough, Jazz’s lurking paid off and the wild tactician fell right into his trap.

Prowl came a-creeping, a-sneaking, a-tip-toe-toeing into the rec room, where the Autobots’ tree and all their presents waited for the big day.

Careful, cautious, as his namesake, Prowl knelt next to the tree and picked up the first present, giving it a little shake in the process…

_Boom!_

The whole present exploded with silly string, glitter, confetti and glue. A bright flash went off from somewhere inside the Christmas tree, imortalizing the event forever.

And Jazz was going to have to stamp a return-to-sender sticker on his Never Been Caught Lurking title, because he fell out of his lurking-spot laughing his aft off?

Did it count as getting caught if he deliberately gave himself away?

Something to contest later; right now Jazz had other problems. Like the ticked off tactician advancing on him, doorwings up in outrage and murderous intent (hehe) _lurking_ in his optics.

“Jazz…”

Jazz laughed harder and scrambled away. Somewhere behind him, another camera went off, capturing Prowl’s pissed off expression for Jazz to revisit forever. Not that he’d _ever_ forget the sight of silly string hanging off Prowl’s chevron, but it was the _principal_ of it. What was a good prank without pictures to laugh at (and blackmail cranky tacticians with) later? “Forgot to check for traps before opening the treasure chest!” Jazz crowed. “Tsk! Tsk! Ain’t that _your_ favorite trick, Sir-Gamemaster-sir?”

“I’m going to murder you and tell everyone you’re on a mission.” Jazz didn’t doubt Prowl’s words. _Right now_ Prowl certainly looked mad enough to carry though. But he’d regret it later. Also Jazz would kinda regret it now. So when the tactician made a lunge for him, Jazz, hehe, cavorted away, dancing on top of the couch to one of the tables.

“Shouldn’t frag with the presents,” Jazz chortled. “But you do this every, _single_ year and I just finally couldn’t resist!”

“Come back here you little pest!”

“Let’s think about that…” Jazz jumped to the next table, as Prowl plowed through this one, sending chairs and glitter everywhere. Another _flash-click!_ announced another camera going off. “No!”

Jazz leapt again, moonwalked across that tabletop, and disappeared into the air vent he’d left unlocked for this exact reason. Saboteur 1: Tactician 0.

Behind him, Jazz heard Prowl destroying the cameras, but he didn’t care. He climbed up into berthroom-sized air filtration chamber, where he’d stashed the _actual_ presents for the duration of his prank alongside a tablet computer.

With a grin he tapped the touchscreen, bringing up the tablet’s photo storage program and grinned. Just like he’d programmed them to, there were the pictures Prowl thought he’d destroyed alongside the cameras. Saboteur 2: Tactician _still_ 0.

Of course if he came out of hiding before doomsday, that may change. Prowl was capable of holding some truly impressive grudges.

Meh. He’d worry about that later.

Right now he was more concerned with how long before Prowl couldn’t resist taking chances with the other “gifts.”


	8. December Eighth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I live below you, and I was minding my own business watching the snowfall out the window, WHEN I SAW A BODY FALL! ARE YOU REALLY PUTTING UP CHRISTMAS LIGHTS NOW?!

It was too cold for the acid storms to form, so Prowl took the chance to stand on his balcony and watch the the vast, starlit sky, which tonight was shot through with rainbow ribbons from the auroras. The hoarfrost, as revered in Praxus as it was feared, had been only mildly acidic this year — a good omen for the upcoming winter solstice celebration. Not to mention it had made Prowl's job this winter less miserable than it generally was.

Unlike those planets astronomers preached about in other, distant, star systems, Cybertron's winter was caused not by axial tilt but by the great distance the planet travelled from it's host star during the cold months. As such it was winter all over Cybertron, rather than just on one part of the planet. The journey to the outer edges of the system and back meant that winter was bitterly cold as the sun grew further and further away, with it often reaching a bare few degrees above Absolute Zero in some, wild, areas. Without that light, the solar harvesters in orbit of the planet were useless and access to the solar harvesters elsewhere in the system was intermittent at best. Only the energon mines of Kaon, Tarn, and Polyhex were left to sustain Cybertron.

Most mechs, like all mechanimals, chose to put themselves in stasis for this long, cold part of their yearly journey through space. Only the miners, those who could afford the energon, and some few (like Prowl) whose functions were determined to be absolutely necessary, stayed awake. Lights were mostly shut down. Cybertron slept. Crime though, was awake and well. Only during the long winter cold, the victims of theft and murder could not call for Enforcer assistance. Still, compared to the rest of the year, when Cybertron was awake and bustling with mechanisms of all walks going about their business, this time of year was relatively peaceful for those in Prowl's profession. Peaceful, but lonely.

The darkness and lack of sunlight made the starscape something truly wondrous to behold. The auroras, pale and weak, and caused at this time of year more by cosmic background radiations than the solar winds,  were perfectly visible, where most of the year they were drowned out by the sun's light except where they were brightest, nearer the poles.

Despite the loneliness of being one of only a few mechs awake to see it, Cybertron really was beautiful like this. A blessing, if a mixed one.

The upcoming solstice was when the planet's orbit around the sun hit it's furthest, coldest, point and began its journey back in towards the center of the system. Those awake would celebrate with lights. Maybe it was a waste of energon in this bleak cold, but their sparks needed the reminder that winter did not last forever.

Prowl was imagining Praxus lit up, the crystal towers lit not from without, as they were during the sunlit days, but from _within_ for the solstice. Thousands of tiny chemlights blurring the distinction between crystal and sky. He could almost see it...

 _Skirrsht!_ "Ack! _Whump! Clank!_ "Owwww..."

Prowl blinked in mild confusion at the shadowed mech suddenly hanging from his balcony rail. A blue optic band met Prowl's confused gaze and the mech shrugged best he could while hanging on for dear life.

"Magnetic clamps," the mech explained... his _current position,_ though not what he was doing. "Can I come in? I don't really feel like dropping all the way to the ground right now..."

"Of course," Prowl said mildly. He was prepared to arrest the mech for breaking and entering... though maybe not. As the mech climbed over the railing and into the low light from Prowl's apartment, Prowl recognized his neighbor directly above him. So at least the mech had a reason to be here. "I thought I was the only one in this building who didn't go into stasis for the winter."

"I usually do," Jazz said, rubbing at a deep scratch in the armor of his leg with a wince. "Usually go back to Polyhex to hibernate with my brother and our family, but I couldn't get there this year. Don't like the thought of sleeping alone, so I stockpiled some energon and decided to stick it out and see the solstice this year."

"I see," Prowl gently guided Jazz to the room's heater and pushed him down to sit in Prowl’s favorite chair in front of it and warm up. Prowl's apartment wasn't very warm, since he was not rich enough to afford the energy costs of heating it fully, but it was much warmer than the hoarfrost encrusted outside. Once Jazz was seated, Prowl went to get the first aid kit to take care of that scratch. "And what were you doing, to make you fall like that?"

Prowl contemplated a blanket he had in the cupboard next to the medical supplies. Anyone used to spending the winter in stasis would probably be really feeling the cold, and layer of isolating mylar couldn't hurt. With a shrug of doorwings he grabbed it too before turning back to his unexpected guest.

Who was looking at him shrewdly. It took a moment to realize that what he'd said could be an accusation. He held out the first aid kit apologetically. "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that."

Jazz took it, opened it, pulled out what he needed to bandage the scratch: cleaning wipes to take out any dirt and rust the may have gotten in the wound, polish to kill off any oxidation infection, a bandage to protect it. Absently Prowl draped the blanket over him. Then wandered away to let his guest take care of his injury in peace. After a moment’s thought, he pulled out a bunsen burner and a knife, then retrieved a cube of gelled energon and some treats from the storage cupboard.

"Was putting up chemlights." Jazz said; Prowl looked up from what he was doing in the apartment's small kitchen to see the other black and white mech intently focused on his own task. "I love chemlights, but I think I went overboard. I was trying to put some on the overhang of the roof when I slipped on the hoarfrost."

"Understandable," Prowl said mildly. After his earlier almost-accusation, he consciously bit back the warning against climbing on the outside of a building without safety gear. He poured out two cups of warmed energon — a trick accomplished by turning the energon to gels, then melting the gels gently over a bunsen burner. Ever since his builder and mentor had decided Prowl was finally ready for police work on his own, Prowl had made sure he stocked enough plain gelled to make at least one cup of warmed energon every day during the winter. "How are you enjoying the winter so far?"

"It's beautiful," Jazz said, as Prowl stirred a spoonful of hydrocarbons in both cups, and one of armor-grade powdered cybertronium into Jazz's to help that scratch heal faster, then cut up two gold-flavored treats into smaller cubes. He added the pieces to melt slowly, adding texture and sweetness to the drink, then returned to Jazz, carrying the two cups while his guest put the first aid supplies neatly back into their box. "It's pretty lonely though.” Jazz continued, looking up as Prowl approached. “Didn't expect that."

"Winter has always been a lonely time," Prowl said, silently handing Jazz his cup.


	9. December Ninth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I KNITTED YOU A JUMPER.

It was a human misconception that Cybertronians did not wear clothing. Understandable. All the Cybertronians that had woken up on Earth were the survivors of millennia of war and it’s accompanying shortages and priorities. Metals of high enough quality to make steelsilk or other ornaments, were much better used as armor, replacement parts, ammunition, rain shelters and weapons. As just as significant as Mirage slowly melting down all his salvaged treasures to make mortars was the loss of skill. The planet’s artisans had fled or been killed. There wasn’t anyone left alive to _make_ clothing anymore.

Peace (“on Earth” hehe), Jazz thought, was changing that.

Earth (or more specifically, its relatively close-by asteroid belt) had the resources. Earth had literally thousands of different methods for making jewelry, clothing and other wearable crafts, and detailed, step-by-step instructions for learning those skills available to anyone who could access the internet (and convince Wheeljack to forge a set of knitting needles, a peg loom, crochet hooks, whatever). Earth was where the war had come to an end, giving mechs the leisure to pick up those skills and practice.

And knitting was surprisingly soothing. Granted Jazz had to pay the exorbitant rate the Constructicons charged for turning asteroid-mined copper and tin into knitable bronze yarn, but it was worth it, in his opinion. He tied off the last knot and examined it. Wasn’t up to the standards of the Iaconian Towers -- it was in fact quite ugly -- but it was his first mech-sized garment. He was proud of it!

Pride did not negate the fact that the prospect of giving it away made him nervous.

He _knew_ that “firsts” were more valuable than beauty when it came to handmade courting gifts. Learning a whole new skill was a lot of effort for someone to go through to ask if their intended would be willing to court; meant more than just buying something fancy. But Jazz was still nervous about giving the ugly thing away.

Finally, he decided to get it over with!

He cornered Prowl as he off shift. His office, which had an attached conference room that had once been used for tactical briefings, had become the survivors’ police station. There were only about ten police officers left (and that included mechs like Red Alert who had not been police before the War, but who had served as security officers during it), and only one of them was usually there at a time, so the office, which served as the reception area, and the conference room were more than enough space for now. The _Ark’s_ brig served as the jail. Prowl exchanged pleasantries with Streetwise, who was the office-officer for the next shift, and turned to leave.

Almost running right into Jazz, who was waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Prowl said, stepping aside out of Jazz’s path to Streetwise. “I’ll let you file your grievance.”

“Don’t have anything to report,” Jazz said nervously. This was it. Decision time. Perfect mission or crash and burn. “Came to talk to you.”

Prowl smiled. “I’m glad.” Then his doorwings swept back apprehensively. “Before we speak though, there is something I wished to talk to you about -- to give you.”

Give him? Did that mean…? Jazz didn’t dare hope.

He was about to insist on being the one to give his ugly knitted monstrosity first, but Prowl beat him to it. He pulled out a box -- one of those boxes humans sold office paper in -- from subspace, and handed it to Jazz.

A delicate net of silver wire and synthetic crystals spilled out into Jazz’s hands. Streetwise gasped, but pretended utter absorption in his work when Prowl turned to look. Jazz, for his part, was transfixed.

“I made them for your doorwings,” Prowl said quietly. “I’ve made smaller ornaments before. This is the first time I’ve made something so big.”

First time… “Help me put them on?”

Prowl gave him a shy smile, silently taking the sparkling wires and draping them over Jazz’s doorwings. Jazz admired the skill that had gone into the ornament’s construction, the way it sparkled in Prowl’s hands, the gentleness with which he draped them over --

“Oh no…” Prowl said with dismay. “I’m sorry. I’ll make you a new set. This is… I am profoundly sorry.”

Jazz twisted, trying to look. “What’s wrong?”

“I made them too big for your particular doorwings. I’m sorry.”

“Naw… I like them.” Jazz grinned, finally spotting how the misfit netting hung down past the edge of his doorwings, where they’d risk getting tangled on nearby objects. “It’s your first. I could never not like them.”

“That’s very kind of you to say.”

Jazz turned and caught Prowl’s hands. “Made something for you too.” He said, pulling the mass of bronze cloth from his subspace. “Been teaching myself to knit. It’s my first full-sized thing.”

Prowl picked up the thing and examined it. Then after a moment, pulled it over his head, squirming until all his appendages had found the right holes for them in the garment, then pulled the thing down until it almost reached his knees. Prowl examined himself as best he could.

“I like it,” he pronounced.

Jazz grinned. The jumper was ugly as frag, but it fit perfectly.


	10. December Tenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: MY MOM KNITTED YOU A JUMPER. 
> 
> (Cat AU.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know at one point I said I’d be stubborn and stick to robots for the whole prompt list, but I couldn’t resist this.

Jazz tilted his head and regarded the house at the end of the driveway. Absently he scratched his ear. He didn’t have fleas. It was too cold for fleas, and The Hands had worked some magic so he didn’t get fleas anymore anyway, but he vividly remembered the bity, itchy, owwy feeling of having them.

The House was still the House, of course. It had all the right scents, even muffled and buried in snow as they were. His own markings on the outer walls, the unique scent of The Hands, the other cats, even the dog in the yard. A landscape of scent that said safety and warmth. Food and pettings. Strings to chase and crumpled paper to pounce.

Not that _Jazz_ ever attacked the toys The Hands left all over the ground for the cats. Those other fluff-fluffs had never been outside in the cold and the snow, or had to hunt for a single meal in their lives so they pounced on whatever skittered by. _Jazz_ had some dignity though. If he couldn’t eat it, he wasn’t going to bother playing with it.

The House had changed though. As the snow had come, The House had gotten some weird scents. Pine and melted wax and other odd, odd things that Jazz wasn’t sure he liked. And the _lights._ Where had all those little blinky fireflies come from? Only they weren’t fireflies. Jazz knew what fireflies tasted like and those yucky things might glow like bugs, but they weren’t edible.

Jazz didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all.

But The House was The House, and Jazz was wet and cold and he had mats in his fur and he’d gotten in a scuffle with another cat yesterday and the scratch hurt worse than fleas. He didn’t know what The Hands did with Jazz’s various scratches and other injuries, but after much incomprehensible cooing and uncomfortableness with a white thing that itched, they always healed more cleanly than they had before he’d come to The House. Summed up, he’d been away from The House too long.

Time to face the music.

Jazz picked up his prize and circled around back to where The Dog usually was. It wasn’t. It must be inside, out of the cold and wet and honestly Jazz couldn’t blame it. He and The Dog may not get along at all, but it’d only taken one swipe of claws across its nose to get the point across that Jazz was not a cat to be trifled with.

He went to the secret Dog-and-Jazz only opening in the back wall of The House. When The Hands had first put the collar on Jazz, he’d ditched it. He’d in fact, probably ditched a dozen of the heavy, itchy, noisy, annoying things, until he’d figured out that it was the collar that opened the secret opening and let him come and go without having to scratch at the door, undignified, until The Hands opened it. So Jazz had learned to quiet the stupid jingle-jangles while he stalked and kept the collar and its magical ability to open the secret door.

Inside, Jazz immediately shivered, shaking off the snow and wet that had accumulated on his fur. He liked his fur. Silver tabby stripes, it was perfect for blending into every sort of shadow. But he liked his fur much better when it was clean and dry. He was tempted to sit right there on the doormat and clean off the wet, but there was something he needed to do first.

“PROWL!” he yowled around the gift he’d brought. “PROWL! I’M HERE! I’M HERE!”

No Prowl. That was odd. The older cat might be a fluff-fluff, but he was the unquestioned leader of the housecats. Jazz was a young lanky kitten with delusions of grandeur compared to the stately siamese. Jazz knew better than to enter The House without offering to lick out Prowl’s ears. But if Prowl wasn’t going to come…

He was probably busy with The Hands, Jazz reasoned. The Hands doted on the housecats, but the price was often not being able to squirm free whenever a cat needed to. Well if Prowl was with The Hands, he’d lick the other cat’s ears after he dropped off his gift and gone to see The Hands himself. The Hands’ doting was what Jazz had come for after all.

So first Jazz put down the gift so he could lick all the wet off his fur.

Forty minutes later, still no Prowl, and Jazz set off to find a place to put his gift.

He settled for one of the tall shoes by the door at the front of The House. It was perfect. Deep enough to be like burying the mouse -- and The Hands had better appreciate how difficult it was to catch a fresh mouse in this snow! -- for later, and few things in The House were as clearly scent-marked as belonging to The Hands as the shoes. The Dog and the other housecats would clearly understand that anything inside the shoe belonged to The Hands and not to them!

That done, Jazz set off to find The Hands for himself.

He passed The Dog, laying in front of the fireplace like the big lazy thing he was. Several cats were curled up there too, some even _touching_ The Dog (Prowl wasn’t among them, so Jazz answered their tail-waving, ear-twitching greetings only absently and otherwise ignored the fluff-fluffs) but that was only natural. They were _cats._

For its part, the tabby-striped mastiff opened its beady eyes to look at Jazz as he passed. Jazz glared at it, fluffing his fur to warn it off. It only yawned, showing off its huge mouth and teeth, and went back to sleep. Smart dog.

Jazz finally found The Hands in the bedroom. Prowl was there too. There was something odd as he touched the dominant cat’s nose in greeting and offered to lick his ears, but he didn’t have time to sniff out what it was before The Hands grabbed him.

Of course Jazz yowled in protest! This was always so UNDIGNIFIED.

And THAT STUNG!

Jazz was exhausted from his protests and wiggling, but some undetermined time later, he was deposited on the bed next to Prowl. His paw was covered now in the itchy white thing that made the scratch stop hurting. The Hands scurried off to do whatever it did when it wasn’t harassing poor cats to death. Jazz resumed his interrupted greeting

He touched noses to Prowl. Exchanged scents. “Heya. Want me to lick your ears?”

“Hello,” Prowl said back with a low, mournful meow. Jazz would never understand why siamese like Prowl felt the need to meow along with every word, but Prowl was in charge so Jazz didn’t criticize. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry fer what?”

The Hands returned just then, grabbing Jazz again. Reflexively he dug his claws into bed, but The Hands did something with its hands, cooing incomprehensibly all the while, and forced Jazz to let go.

UNDIGNIFIED!

Several minutes of hissing, clawing, squirming and cooing later, Jazz was once again deposited on the bed. He now had an itchy, too-warm covering on most of his body and HE DID NOT LIKE THIS!

“I would have warned you,” Prowl meowed. “Apparently it thinks we’re cold, because we’re shorthairs.”

Jazz scratched at the neckline of the thing, but it was bulkier than the collars and far too snug for that sort of thing. All he accomplished was getting his back claws stuck in it. The Hands gently released the tangled foot, clucking like a bird the whole time.

“What is this thing?” Jazz hissed. He tried fluffing up his fur, only to find it was being held down by the itchy thing. He tried to lick it away, like he would a burr, but his tongue got caught on it! WHY DID THE HANDS TORTURE HIM LIKE THIS?

“Some sort of blanket,” Prowl meowed. “It’s not bad once you get used to it. The Hands made it out of yarn, I think.”

Jazz remembered yarn. He would deny forever and ever ever stooping to playing with the yarn, but he recognized the nasty taste of the blanket thing as the same as the yarn. Bleh. His continued protests didn’t elicit anything like sympathy from The Hands. In fact Jazz thought it was _laughing_ at him! See if he brought it any mice ever again!

Eventually Jazz slunk over to Prowl. He didn’t need to slink, but he _couldn’t help it!_ The blanket-thing pushed down on the fur of his spine and made it feel like he was crawling through a space too small for him. Undignified. Daintily he sniffed Prowl’s blanket-thing and yep. It was made from the same itchy, scratchy yarn and was a nasty horrible color. There was no way they could hunt in these! Sure Prowl didn’t hunt, but it was the _principle of the thing!_

Prowl for once patiently endured Jazz’s sniffing, and didn’t even say anything when Jazz got his tongue stuck on Prowl’s blanket thing. Jazz sniffed disdainfully, and cuddled close to the dominant cat. Prowl, never the most touchy-feely cat in The House, tolerated this with a huff that said quite plainly that it was only because _Jazz_ was suffering that he was deigning to cuddle. Which of course was only natural.

A moment later, Prowl meowed, “My ears itch.”

Jazz’s fur fluffed -- _tried_ to fluff, stupid ugly blanket thing; Jazz’s ears briefly went back in complaint -- in pleasure. Without a word he licked the other cat’s ears, purring happily.


	11. December Eleventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We’re strictly ‘platonic’ but we’re snowed in. OMG! We’re gonna have to repopulate the earth!

"Is it still snowing?

Prowl didn't need to peek out of their shelter to check. He could hear the wood of the reinforced roof of the hurricane shelter they'd found before the snow had gotten too deep to either drive or walk creak as the storm continued to add layers of dank, fluffy cold to it. "Yes."

All told, their choice of shelter hadn't been too bad. Cozy even. It was cold, but the solid roof and snow above them, and the concrete and earth around them, insulated them from the worst of it. The shelter may have been abandoned, but someone had built this storm bunker to last. Energon was a concern. They were rationing, but it still would only last a few days, a week at most. But they weren't freezing, or wet, or wet and freezing, which was a lot more than Prowl had been able to hope for when they’d found the dilapidated barn directly above them that was the only standing structure for miles in any direction.

"You know what this means?" Jazz said, impishly, from his place curled up and tucked up under Prowl's bumper for warmth.

Prowl knew he was going to regret asking, but, "What?"

"We're the last two mechs in existence and gotta repopulate the species."

Prowl spent several moments deleting every attempt by his battle simulator to analyze or refute that statement. It was only going to make him crash and that was the last thing they needed. Finally, "What?"

"It's a trope," Jazz said with a soft laugh. "Two friends get snowed in or otherwise survive a disaster that kills off everyone else, so they gotta overcome their reluctance to get emotionally entangled with each other, fall in love, and repopulate the Earth."

"Ah," Prowl said. His battle computer filed the statement away under  _ Earth pop culture trivia _ and left it there. Prowl however thought on it a moment longer. "We do not have enough spare parts to build a single juvenile transformer, much less an entire species' worth. However, if you believe we need to 'overcome our reluctance to get emotionally entangled with each other', I would not be adverse to trying."

The roof creaked.

"After the storm."


	12. December Twelfth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I slipped on ice outside your house, and you ran out barefoot to help me -- quick! Let’s get inside under a blanket!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through the prompts!

“There… easy mech.” Prowl shook his head and groaned. The arms helping him up shivered, from laughter or cold, Prowl couldn’t tell right now. “Maybe don’t do that quite yet, huh?” the mech drawled. “You okay?”

Prowl reset his optics, trying to clear the double image. It didn’t help. “I think I jarred my processor,” he managed to answer the mech’s question.

“Figured that,” the mech hefted Prowl up as best he could, taking most of his weight. “You drove into a mailbox. Probably hit your head. Let’s get you inside.”

“Logical.” Prowl did manage to gain enough control over his feet that the mech wasn’t dragging him, but it was a near thing. The transition from icy white outside to warm inside was stark and sent Prowl’s systems in a reflexive shiver.

The mech cursed and dragged Prowl into another room, where he was laid down on a warmed berth, and blankets were pulled over him. Something about that set off alarm bells, but the mech didn’t do anything. And he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be worried about. He just stared at the double image of the black and white and blue mech in front of him. The _shivering_ black and white and blue mech.

“You wait right here; gonna call a medic. Anyone else I need to make sure knows where you are?”

“You’re cold too.” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but his systems were still trying to catch up with what had happened, which seemed to have put his vocalizer on automatic with his analyst systems.

“Just ain’t built to go outside in this weather,” the mech dismissed his concern. “Come on focus; who else do I need to call?”

“I’m in your berth.”

The mech gave an explosive sigh. “Yes. Warmest place in the house.”

“You’re cold; you should lay down too.”

“You know what. If it gets you to answer my questions, I will!”

As the mech laid down, Prowl couldn’t help but to snuggle into the stranger’s warmth.

“Primus… If you’re memory circuits aren’t too jarred to recall this tomorrow, you’re going to be so embarrassed.” Prowl just made a contented sound and shut off his optics to get rid of the disorienting double vision. “Now. Calling a medic,” the mech said slowly. “Anyone else?”

“Precinct,” Prowl muttered in answer.

“Wow… perfect. I’ve got a cop in my bed.”

Was that sarcastic? Should he be offended? "Just a cadet."

"Like  _that_ matters."

Figuring that statement out was far, far too much work and Prowl’s systems finally just shut down.

.

.

.

Prowl woke up in the hospital with a note that had been left crumpled in his hand:  

> _Name’s Jazz by the way. Figured you’d want to know who you shared a berth with last night._

What?


	13. December Thirteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: _It’s A wonderful Life_? Aww... It sounds so cute babe, sure we can watch it! ::30 mins later:: YOU MONSTER!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Sooooo… it’s not exactly like the prompt. XD

It was going to be a miserable Christmas, Prowl thought as he patrolled the medbay, checking up on the injured.

The Autobots’ Christmas party was a tradition they’d started their first year awake. Now… five years in, it was the first time it had been abandoned. Prowl had already called each of the dignitaries that would usually come and told them that, due to the injuries accrued, the party had been canceled and the Autobots could not guarantee their safety. All of them had said they understood. It was no different than visiting an active military base of their own after all: the war went on, and these things just couldn’t take precedent over the enemy.

Each of them had expressed their regrets, and condemned the Decepticons for not even respecting the Christmas season.

Prowl hadn’t disagreed, but in truth he could not condemn the Decepticons for this attack. Not ore hand he could for any other, anyway. The Autobots had adopted Christmas out of their respect for their human allies, and as a boost to their own flagging morale, but it was an alien holiday to them and the Decepticons both. Meaningless.

No the one truly at fault for this debacle was Prowl himself. He had allowed himself to forget that. He had been lulled into complacency over the last four years without an attack. He had planned on having peace for the season, when he had no true reason to expect the Decepticons to remain quiescent. 

“Ain’t yer fault,” Jazz said, coming up behind him. The two of them were the only officers not confined to their hospital beds. Jazz limped, showing just how narrowly he’d escaped spending the holiday bedridden. 

“And whose fault do you suppose it is,” Prowl said -- quietly and evenly. The crew didn’t need to hear this, see their second in command faltering.

“Megatron’s,” Jazz said promptly. “Wouldn’t be a war if he’d’ve been willing t’negotiate with Prime once the senate was gone.”

Prowl could not refute that. It did not negate the fact that he, himself, should have  _ done better. _

“Come on,” Jazz said. “I gotta movie in the rec room for the walking wounded. Mean a lot to them if you came.”


	14. December Fourteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We were playing in the snow and you suddenly tackled me to the ground and now…we’re just…staring… at each other…

Was there _anything_ more fun than annoying Prowl?

Mostly because Prowl was the only one with the capability and mentality to catch him at it. Jazz admitted this to himself, though to no one else. Ironhide appreciated a good prank, but he neither drove fast enough enough, nor was sneaky enough, to be a anything but a victim to Jazz skills at everything fast and sneaky. Prime was more observant and had better reflexes than anyone would think, given his size, but he was just too nice to retaliate. Sideswipe was fast enough to chase down Jazz, and sneaky, but prank him and it was Sunstreaker that ended up on Jazz’s tail.

So yeah. Jazz would never admit as to why Prowl was his prefered target, but it was because Prowl was the only one with a snowball’s chance of _catching_ him.

Hehe… snowball.

Jazz may be a _master_ of the subtle prank, but sometimes all he wanted was a good chase.

Snow tires were… interesting, but they got the job done.

Anyone (like Sparkplug) watching Jazz speed down the road would only have thrown up his hands and declared that Autobots were just plain crazy. Autobots and speeding… practically the reason speed traps had been invented. Autobots and speeding in dangerous weather. Jazz just called that fun.

Everyone knew about the speedtrap just over five miles from the _Ark’s_ entrance, but Jazz knew what no one else at the _Ark_ currently did: there weren’t any _human_ police officers freezing their afts off in it today. The snow was too thick. Prowl had volunteered to spend the day ticketing the various miscreants that called the _Ark_ their home.

Hehe…

Which brought him to the speeding.

AND to the sudden, swerving, slightly out of control stop just short of the speedtrap that threw a giant _wave_ of snowflakes and slush over its occupant.

“JAZZ!” Prowl screeched with a surprised _whoop!_ of his sirens.

Jazz giggled and threw himself into a tight donut that threw ice and dirt in every direction, hitting Prowl with another cold, slushy wave.

Prowl revved his engine in warning and Jazz took off across the flat ground next to the road, fishtailing to throw yet another barrage of snow at the cop-bot. With a wail of sirens that resounded across the plains, Prowl lunged after him.

WOOT!

Snow continued to pelt the black and white police car as he chased the saboteur, but it was more a result of being the car in _back,_ rather than deliberate on Jazz’s part. Most of the time.

Finally, Prowl’d had _enough_ of Jazz’s deliberate fishtailing and getting hit with yet _another_ wave of cold, dirt-ridden snow with each one. He gunned his engine, leapt forward… and transformed, turning acceleration into a true _leap._

He hit Jazz and mech and car went tumbling through the snow.

Mech and car, then mech and mech as Jazz transformed in Prowl’s grip, flipped them both, and landed with a solid _thump_ straddling Prowl’s waist.

The quip died on Jazz’s tongue as blue met blue.


	15. December Fifteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: YOU DON’T LIKE MARSHMALLOWS IN YOUR HOT CHOCOLATE? WHY DO YOU HATE LOVE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the same ‘verse as my drabble on [December Eighth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8719240/chapters/20153818)

“You could come with me to Polyhex,” Jazz said, picking the silver-based goodies floating in the warmed energon out to let them cool. 

Prowl watched this action with bemusement. He wasn’t entirely sure when that had started. Not long after he’d served Jazz that very first cup. As soon as he’d noticed his unexpected winter guest’s actions, he’d (rather tactfully, he though) served Jazz’s cubes of silver goodies separate from the warmed energon. Jazz had given him an odd look, then dumped the tiny cubes into the hot liquid, then pulled them out a few seconds later.

After that Prowl had concluded that his upstairs neighbor was just odd, and it would be better to just let him do what he wanted. So he’d served the energon with the goodies floating in it, Jazz picked them out, then ate them once they were cool.

“I have a duty here,” Prowl said in answer to Jazz’s suggestion.

After Jazz had (literally) fallen into his life, the two had decided that winter together would be better than winter alone. They’d consolidated their salaries into heating a single apartment, their energon stashes into a single storage room. It was cheaper, and their individual loneliness had morphed into a sort of gentle camaraderie. 

Prowl had been foolish to mention that he’d miss it when Jazz went to hibernate with his sibling and builders next year. Now Jazz was determined to somehow find a way to be in both places at once.

“Do,” Jazz acknowledged. “But how much is that because you don’t have anything else? About half the force hibernates. Why are  _ you _ the one who has to stay up?”

Prowl was not so self-delusional as to be unaware of that answer. “Because I have nothing else. Not since my builder returned to the Well. Before that, he and I would both stay up through the winter.”

“So it’s not such a silly idea,” Jazz said, absently popping one of the cooled silver goodies into his mouth. “I’m not saying you could come hibernate with us  _ every _ year, but… how about every other year? Then I could save up the money and stay up with you on the off-years.”

Prowl felt like he’d been slapped by Jazz’s generosity. “What about your family?”

“They’ll understand.” Jazz shrugged it away. Smiled. “I’m a grown mech. If I want to spend the winter with a friend, they won’t mind. Sleep through most of it, in fact.” Jazz snickered.

Prowl smiled back, but didn’t answer. Thinking. Jazz didn’t push. Winter seemed to bring that out in people. There was no need to hurry and make any sort of decision, because until spring there would be nothing at all  _ but _ time.

So both had finished their warm drinks, Jazz had eaten all his soggy silver treats, and they had cleaned their cubes and settled onto Prowl’s couch to read together. Jazz had the technical manual for a new sort of speaker that was going to be going on the market soon, while Prowl had a crime detective novel and a red stylus.

He couldn’t concentrate on correcting the logical fallacies of the protagonist though. Eventually.

“If there aren’t enough officers to cover every shift during the winter shift, there’s a random drawing to determine whose leave gets cancelled.” Jazz blinked at him, visibly recalling their previous conversation and realigning his thoughts to continuing it. “If my service number is drawn, I will have to make my apologies to your family and stay.”

“They won’t mind,” Jazz repeated. “I wouldn’t ask you to leave if you were really needed.” He ducked his head. “It’s more expensive to stay up. I might not be able to stay with you, for things like that.”

“Understandable.” Anticipated even. Prowl was still getting paid through the winter; Jazz had to save during the rest of the year to stock up enough energon. “I will survive an occasional year by myself. You should return to your family.”

“We’ll make it work,” Jazz said.


	16. December Sixteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: TREE DECORATING! (Bonus points if one of them is doing it completely wrong -- OMG why am I in love with you?)

Prowl _always_ skipped the Autobots’ Christmas party. Jazz knew why he did it. The Praxan didn’t like parties, the high grade, the press of all the residents of the _Ark_ stuffed into the rec room… He never had. For as long as Jazz had known him, Prowl had always been that quiet person who avoided groups. He prefered connecting with individuals. So he always put himself on monitor duty during the party -- not one of the 2IC’s usual duties -- to let someone who did want to go have the night off.

But Prowl did connect to individuals, and Jazz had finally convinced him that skipping the party did not mean skipping Christmas all together. So they were putting up their first, private, tree in their quarters.

Prowl had done extensive research into the art of Christmas tree decoration.

Which is why it was so Primusdamned amusing that he was doing it _completely and totally wrong!_

“So these,” Prowl carefully picked up one piece from a fluffy mound of (buttered!) popcorn, “go on this string,” he explained, like he was outlining a particularly tricky tactical maneuver.

Jazz nodded, smiling, barely holding in his laughter. “Show me, lover. We never used popcorn garlands in th’rec room.”

For good reason; the miscreants who’d been tasked with making decorations and putting them on the tree were good enough at their jobs, asl long as they weren’t given the opportunity to make too big a mess. Giving Blades access to a bowl of popcorn and Ravage would still be finding it in the _Ark’s_ air vents for centuries. But Prowl wanted a _traditionally decorated_ Christmas tree in their quarters, which meant popcorn garlands. And off all mechs, Prowl should have been the one least likely to make a mess.

That’ll teach Jazz to make assumptions like that!

Prowl had carefully measured how many lights is was safe to sting together on a single circuit, but then piled them rather haphazardly onto the tree itself. He’s tried going for an even distribution, but his backtracking and loops to ensure _exact_ evenness had resulted in a tree covered in a messy cobweb pattern of lights. Garlands went on before ornaments, so all of Prowl’s carefully chosen, traditional ornaments, were still packed away, but they were a truly haphazard collection of colors and patterns that was going to look tacky, Jazz just knew it.

And now the popcorn! Three of the bags of popcorn had exploded when Prowl had opened them, sending bags of fluffy white all over the room. The room smelled overwhelmingly of butter, and now…

Prowl demonstrated how to string the popcorn onto the needle and fishing line and Jazz’s only thought was _How th’frag do you frag up poking a needle through a little foamy white thing?_ Jazz wasn’t even sure he was seeing things right. His proccessor just refused to see the utter atrocity Prowl was making of stringing up a simple kernal of popcorn.

Prowl looked so hopeful though.

“Gotcha,” Jazz said with a grin. Oh Primus. He should be taking pictures of this. Prowl being incompetent at Christmas decorations seemed like the thing that should be recorded for posterity. He loved this idiot, he really did.

So together they made and strung up the _worst_ popcorn garlands in the history of ever.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Of course Prowl had the last laugh.

Jazz woke up from his hangover on Christmas morning to find the horrible attempt at a tree he’d been living with for two weeks had been replaced with a perfect one while he slept. Rich red lights and tinsel, bright, creamy white and perfect popcorn garlands, and dazzling gold ornaments... just enough of them to be beautiful, sparkling accents rather than gaudy.

And under it two lonesome presents. One was the one Jazz had left there before the party; the other had been wrapped to match the tree.  _From Prowl._


	17. December Seventeenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We took our kids to Santa’s Workshop and they both wished we would get together. (Human AU)

Jasmine Miller carefully counted out her finances for the year. This Christmas season was going to be tight, but she had _just_ enough to indulge Melody. Her daughter had been insisting on going to Santa’s Workshop for weeks now -- even before the Santa’s Workshops had sprung up in the malls and other places around town.

It was going to be hard, Jasmine knew, listening to her five year old list out every toy she could possibly want, knowing there was no chance “Santa” would be able to bring any of it, but Melody had heard about visiting Santa Claus last year at school. Jasmine had hoped, futilely, that Melody would forget all about being able to visit Santa, or decide it was unnecessary. After all “Santa” had always known what she’d wanted before… within what Mommy could afford of course.

Nothing for it, Jasmine though. She had enough money to afford the and buy a picture of her little girl on Santa’s lap, and Melody was already so excited. Jasmine had barely convinced her to settle down and watch her favorite episode of Sesame Street. They were going. That was that. Later today.

A knock on the door interrupted her bout of determined thoughts.

Curious who would be knocking on her door this early in the morning, Jasmine put down her checkbook.

Alexander and his daughter Meta, who lived in one of the bigger apartments upstairs, were there with a shopping bag.

“Good morning Jazz,” Alex said as Jasmine opened the door. The little girl immediately scampered in to go find Melody. “Meta told me that you and Mell were decorating cookies and going to see Santa today. She said,” Alex’s clear blue eyes twinkled knowingly, “we were invited. We did bring some extra cookies and decorating supplies,” he continued.

“Of course.” Jasmine stepped aside to let Alex in the tiny kitchen right off the entryway. Briefly she sent a glare towards the scheming little brats in the living room, where they were counting along with The Count on the TV.

Thankfully Alex hadn’t brought over anything too elaborate for cookie decorating. He’d always been kind like that, bringing things so that Jasmine didn’t have to dip into her own carefully budgeted supply of things, but never rubbing their noses into the reality that they were poor. Together they set out the tray of plain sugar cookies, three colors of frosting, and a handful of sprinkles, M&Ms and other candies.

Four bright eyes were watching them eagerly by the time they’d finished.

“First,” Jasmine said seriously, as she frosted the first cookie (she knew better than to let a pair of seven year olds decide how much frosting was appropriate to put on a cookie), “tell me what you two are going to pester Santa for this year.”

They looked at each other.

Meta spoke first, “I want Mel to be my sister.”

Melody nodded vigorously next to him.

Startled, Jasmine and Alexander looked at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to my research, the name "Alexander" means "Defender". I thought it was an appropriate name for Prowl today. And yes, "Meta" is a real name; it's a shortened form of "Margaret". I couldn't resist. :P


	18. December Eighteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Our Christmas party turned into a tropical theme because the radiator is broken and it’s hotter than hell in here - damn you look good without a shirt; I never noticed before... asgdhfjgkhl!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this asked for a Friends AU. I wasn’t sure if that meant the TV show _Friends_ b/c I’ve never seen it and thus I don’t know if there’s an episode like this that I’m supposed to be rewriting. So I’m doing robots without armor instead. (Btw - I _never_ do robots without armor, so buckle up for some awkward writing.) It’s also short b/c I had to finish before I left for the day.

Living in a volcano had its drawbacks.

And  _ sometimes _ it had advantages.

The  _ Ark’s _ climate controls had failed almost an orn ago. Wasn’t the first time. But, as luck -- Jazz still wasn’t sure if it was good luck or bad -- would have it, the volcano had started a “cycle of increased geothermic activity” (as Perceptor and Beachcomer had explained) at the same time. A week the Autobots had thought were going to be cold as the void as winter set in and snow piled up, had instead been (as the humans had said) hotter than hell.

Those mechs who had to be battle ready, complete with full armor, had taken to recharging outside, under snow-and-rock colored camouflage tarps. Jazz had taken his turn on the combat roster. Was actually pretty comfy, digging out a little hollow in the volcanic sand to get to the warmer layer, then cover up with the tarp and sleep perfectly balanced between the heat of the volcano and the chill of the snow that accumulated on top of the tarp. 

Now though, he was firmly off duty, and like the others, had take off the bulk of his armor and kibble so he wouldn’t die of heat exhaustion. Of course he kept his armor close at hand, ready to be clipped back on at a moment’s notice, but that was just sensible.

And Prowl…  _ akaljljdaioejrioajd! _

Jazz was definitely counting Prowl without his armor on as an  _ advantage _ of this volcano-induced heat wave. Bot had a  _ fine _ looking chassis hidden under his boring, utilitarian paint. 

It was all Jazz could do not to follow the tactician around the  _ Ark, _ panting like a mech in heat. 

More than  _ anything _ Jazz wanted to get his fingers onto Prowl’s doorwings and see what  _ they _ were like without their armor. Smokescreen and Bluestreak were still on the battle roster, so Jazz couldn’t tell if it was Praxans in general, or just Prowl, but Prowl’s doorwings still had armor on them despite the heat. It was intriguing. Interesting. Fascinating.  _ ComeonProwlIjustwanttopetthem! _

No. Stop that. Bad Jazz. No touching what he hadn’t been invited to touch. Which was, unfortunately,  _ all _ of Prowl, not just the doorwings.

But he couldn’t stop following Prowl around the  _ Ark. _

Compelling. Gripping. Riveting. Enthralling. Enchanting…

Attractive. That was the word.

Jazz groaned. Maybe it was time to put himself back on the battle roster, just to keep from embarrassing himself further...


	19. December Nineteenth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: We’re co-workers who hate each other, but you had too much to drink at the staff christmas party and admitted your love for me. I don’t know how to act around you now.

“... situation will be in flux, so I have assigned Jazz, Mirage, Bumblebee and other scouts to the exclusive duty of monitoring the enemy and updating the chief tactician,” meaning Prowl, “so that I and other tacticians can update the fighters’ orders as necessary.”

Everyone in the officers’ briefing -- officers’ officers even, since it only had the division heads and Prime attending; each of them then had copies of the less detailed and comprehensive briefings they were going to be giving their subordinates -- nodded along with the Prowl’s plan.

Except Jazz. He was looking at his part of the plan puzzled.

It actually wasn’t an unusual thing for him and his division to be doing during the battle. The instructions gave him a lot of leeway in how he deployed the spies and scouts. Mirage would go up in a sniper’s nest behind the enemy lines where he could do his job and provide covering fire if he got orders to bail someone out of trouble. Jazz’s orders were _very_ vaguely worded; Prowl trusted him to know when to shoot, when to stay silent, and when to blow everything vaguely superweapon-ish into orbit without oversight. It was _exactly_ the sort of battle assignment Jazz had gotten literally hundreds of times before.

But was it?

“Something wrong, Jazz?” Prowl asked calmly, even a little snappish. It was well known that Prowl and Jazz could work well together, but absolutely loathed each other. Jazz saw Prime, Ironhide and Red Alert all brace for the fight that was coming.

 _Yeah. How long’ve you been in love with me? That’s m’question!_ Jazz thought.

“Nothin’,” is what he sullenly _said,_ much to everyone’s relief.

The briefing, miraculously, ended without a single argument. Which, honestly, was enough to make Red’s sensor fins spark and everyone else was giving them worried looks. Jazz escaped before Optimus could order him to remain behind and explain what was going on.

Because Jazz wasn’t sure he _could_ explain what was going on.

Especially since Prowl didn’t seem to remember the incident. _He_ was carrying on as normal. Jazz should’ve been able to act normal too, but he couldn’t. Prowl was being his normal, stick-in-the-aft, way-too-logical, someone-should-shake-some-emotions-into-him self, and _Jazz still hated it!_

What was he supposed to _do_ with a drunken revelation that every corresponding trait of Jazz’s, equal but opposite forces that made it difficult to even stay civil, were things Prowl _loved_ about Jazz?

Should he ignore it, like Prowl was so obviously ignoring it?

Naw…


	20. December Twentieth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: DRUNKEN CAROLLING (”That’s not a thing.” “Oh, yes it is.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super short and super early b/c I have to go do family stuff this morning.

_~ What child is this? ~ Who laid to rest ~ On Mary’s lap is sleeping ~_

Jazz sang along with his radio as he danced through the crashed _Ark._ Religious _music._ Count Jazz as a fan. He didn’t subscribe to the religion in question of course, but a people — a _species_ — who worshiped their god with music was definitely one Jazz could get behind. Primus was all about divine equations, which, bleh. Sure music could be reduced down to mathematics and variables… except in all the ways it _couldn’t._ So while Jazz may not be so Christmas-crazy as to convert, he certainly wasn’t going to scoff at Christmas hymns.

_Wonder how Prime’d react if I wrote some Primal-hymns for him?_

Not well. Optimus may be the living God of the Cybertronian religion, but he’d really rather forget that fact most days. He’d probably tie Jazz up and drop him in the ocean over the _Nemesis_ with the words “Predacon Snack” written on his bumper if he dared. Pity. He’d just have to make do with songs about _~ This, this is Christ the King ~ Whom shepherds guard and Angels sing ~ Haste, haste to bring him laud ~ The Babe, the Son of Mary. ~_

“Jazz!” Prowl interrupted his song. There the mech stood in the middle of the corridor wearing the face that sent most troublemakers scrambling for cover. Jazz wasn’t an average troublemaker, however.

“Pro~wl!” Jazz caroled as best he could. There was no not breaking the song’s rhythm to talk, but the attempt was amusing.

Prowl’s face scrunched up in further disapproval. “Are you drunk?”

“Just a liiittle! It’s tradition!”

“I know I am going to regret asking, but what tradition?”

“Humans!” Jazz grinned, waving his arms expansively. “Drunken caroling!”

Prowl just stood there, analysing that statement for a moment, perhaps even taking the time to look up the “tradition” in question, before responding. “Very well. You may continue singing drunkenly for as long as you like —”

“YES!”

“— from a brig cell.”


	21. December Twenty-First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: TEACH ME HOW TO SKI! (Lol joking. I know how; you’re just so fucking cute.)

“Like this,” Prowl said as Jazz allowed him correct his stance. “You’ll be much more stable with your feet a bit further apart. Now bend your knees ankles and waist slightly. Good,” Prowl sounded so  _ proud _ of Jazz. Jazz barely kept himself from laughing.

Because… Jazz knew how to ski. He may have been sparked and raised in Polyhex, which had never seen a snowflake in its entire existence, but he’d taken frequent (let’s go with the word “trips”) trips to the Altihex plateau, up above the acid-line, where skiing was more common than driving.

But Prowl had just sounded so  _ hopeful _ when he’d seen the snow accumulating on the slopes of the volcano and he’d offered to  _ teach Jazz… _ It was adorable. There was just nothing else for it. Jazz thought Prowl was adorable, so he was going along with completely unneeded lesson in Praxan winter sports.

“Now,” Prowl said, demonstrating, “hold your hands out wide, like you’re about to give someone a hug. Feel your weight evenly distributed across your feet.”

Jazz held his hands out, mirroring Prowl, but then couldn’t resist. He pushed off a bit with his ski, sending himself forward  _ just _ fast enough to catch Prowl by surprise in that hug.

At first, Prowl tried holding Jazz up, presuming he’d lost his balance and was falling, but then realized they weren’t been dragged down into the powder or tangling their skies together. They were just hugging. Prowl looked at Jazz; Jazz grinned at Prowl.

“You have no need for my instructions, do you?” Prowl almost whispered.

“Nope,” Jazz smiled, “but you make an awesome teacher.”

“I apologize. I should have asked before assuming --”

Now that Jazz just couldn’t have. Prowl apologizing was not what he’d wanted out of this. So he interrupted, with a kiss.


	22. December Twenty-Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: There’s a storm and OMG! I’m losing signal. Are you okay?? Hold on let me drive 489,432 miles to get you the night before Christmas. (Cat AU)

Prowl didn’t understand humans. Oh he _loved_ The Hands, but as far as he was concerned humans were just plain weird. Definitely not like cats. Not everybody could be perfect (like Prowl), after all.

At least being in heat didn’t make The Hands irritable and dangerous to approach like it did female cats. It made the human want to cuddle the cats, but only a bit more usual so it wasn’t that great a hardship. And Jazz had shown him how to ditch the itchy blanket thing, so as far as Prowl was concerned life was good, even if The Hands was being stubborn and not going out to yowl for mate like she so obviously wanted.

Shrill beeping things was something Prowl did _not_ understand, nor did he like them. So when the pocket-thing went off _right under him,_ Prowl… well he jumped gracefully down and glared at The Hands for letting a shrill beepy thing interrupt _his_ petting time!

The Hands ignored him to stand up and meow at the beepy thing. How rude.

Well if she was going to be that way, Prowl didn’t _need_ her attention. He looked for something else to do and found a pen. A pen! On the floor!

It was the _best thing ever!_

Prowl pounced it and it went skittering across the floor. Prowl chased it and it _skittered more._

“Come back here!” he meowed at it. The pen, of course, didn’t listen. Which is why Prowl had to _chase it more._

Of course Prowl wasn’t _listening_ to The Hands while he did this. Everything she meowed was incomprehensible anyway. But when she meowed “... yeah, that sounds like Jazz… “ at the beepy thing, Prowl did stop chasing the pen to listen as best he could. Jazz? “Awww… Prowl stopped playing as soon as I said Jazz’s name. Do you mind if I bring him to pick Jazz up?” A pause. “Yeah I’m sure. They’re pairbonded. Prowl won’t hurt him, and he’s just going to sulk until he sees his scrappy little friend again. Sure. Lemme just grab a pen…” Prowl yowled loudly in protest when she bent down and scooped up _his pen_ off the floor, but she ignored him. “Yeah that was him. I just took his pen. What’s the address? Unhuh… Thanks. And thank you for looking after him. Merry Christmas.”

She returned the shrill beepy thing to her pocket. Prowl jumped up on the chair. “Jazz?” he meowed. It was one of the meows he knew she did understand and he wanted to know why she was meowing Jazz’s name into the beepy thing!

“Yeah. Jazz. Seems like the poor baby got into a bit of trouble.” The Hands was doing her going-outside grooming. She pulled on an itchy blanket thing, then a dead-animal blanket thing, and then did her going outside foot grooming. Prowl meowed again. “Yes you’re going, you little pest. Just let me finish getting my shoes on.”

A few minutes later. “Okay, Prowl, you know the going outside routine. Gotta wear your leash. Jazz is going to need the carrier.”

All Prowl understood was “leash”, “Jazz” and “carrier” but he was very well-versed with both. Unlike Jazz, who could come and go from the magic door the Dog used, Prowl was only allowed outside when he was tethered to The Hands with the leash. Jazz, though, refused to have anything to do with the leash, so if they were going to go to wherever he was and bring him back in the car, he was going to have to be put in the carrier.

What Prowl did _not_ expect was for The Hands pull out THE BLANKET THING and pull it over Prowl’s head. He yowled. I THOUGHT I GOT RID OF THAT!

“Stop protesting,” The Hands scolded, to no effect of course. Prowl wasn’t going to stop protesting this _indignity._ EVER. “It’s fucking storming outside. Thunder and lightning and hail. And _cold._ You’ll be glad to have the sweater while we’re waiting for the car to warm up.”

Whatever that meant it was _irrelevant_ compared to how _awful_ this horrible blanket thing was.

Stupid, fussy, horrible human. Obviously she just needed to get it over with and have a litter of kittens to fuss over because Prowl _did not have to put up with this._

But she didn’t let him escape to go ditch the itchy blanket thing; before Prowl knew it, he was tethered up in the straps of the leash and The Hands was slinging the carrier over her shoulder and scooping Prowl into her arms, tucking him with her under the dead blanket thing. “Stop meowing like that.” Prowl did _not_ stop meowing mournfully. “Alright. Time to go get Jazz.”

The Hands opened the door and Prowl hissed as he pulled his head inside the dead blanket thing. It was _cold._ And the sky was _throwing rocks._ Why was Jazz even _outside_ in this!

Prowl stayed in the dead blanket thing with The Hands’ body heat as they got in the car. It was still cold, but at least there weren't rocks falling from the sky. She dumped the empty carrier into the passenger seat and pulled the door closed. The car started growl-purring. “Come on. Warm up! We’ve got a cat to fetch.”

Prowl just ducked his head back into the dead blanket thing to keep his ears warm.

Until…

“Alright you,” The Hands opened up the dead blanket thing and pried Prowl away from her itchy blanket thing. Prowl hissed in protest and clung to her, but she did that thing with her hands that made him let go and shoved him onto the shelf in front of her. “On the dashboard. We need to get going. This is why you’re wearing a sweater, silly thing.”

It wasn’t as freezing, but the rocks were hitting the window and Prowl flattened his ears, meowing in protest. He usually liked being on the car’s big flat window sill, but this was very unpleasant. He couldn’t even see outside with all the rocks hitting it!

As the car kept purring, the window sill kept getting warmer though, and soon Prowl started watching the rocks hit the window and the stuff moving outside. It wasn’t like the rocks were hitting him anymore. It was pretty fascinating…

Eventually it got kinda boring though. So Prowl curled up on the warmest part of the shelf and went to sleep.

“What the hell was Jazz doing all the way out here, huh Prowl.”

Prowl couldn’t understand The Hands’ meowing, and she couldn’t understand anything except his meows, so he meowed back, just to show that he’d heard his and Jazz’s names.

When the car stopped and its purring ceased, there was, if anything, _more_ rocks. And there was a scary peal of thunder just as The Hands picked him up. He hissed. THUNDER WAS SCARY!

“Just what I needed. Come on, Prowl, sweety. Time to get Jazz.” Prowl meowed again, at their names and settled enough for her to tuck him into the dead blanket thing with her. He’d be safe in here!

Another harrowing crash of thunder as they got out of the car had Prowl digging his claws through the yarn of The Hands’ blanket thing and right into her furless skin beneath. It was a single cussing/yowling-bound-together-by-claws creature that stumbled into the doors of the animal shelter, dragging an empty carrier along with it.

“That is _it,_ furball! You are riding back with Jazz in the goddamn carrier!”

Prowl meowed at the sound of Jazz’s name.

“Miss?” Another human -- a _male_ human -- came up to them just as The Hands got them untangled and dumped Prowl onto a yucky, smelly chair.

“Hi! Yeah!” She turned and showed teeth at the male human. Good for her! He was _definitely_ interested in mating with her, but if she didn’t want to be mated with yet then it was nice of her to warn him off first. Every tomcat knew that you didn’t try touching a female cat until she was ready; it was a good way to lose an eye! “You’ve apparently got my stupid cat. My name’s Elita and we’re here to pick up Jazz.” The Hands glared down at Prowl, who was sniffing the chair where another tomcat had left a mark, “Don’t you dare spray that, furball.”

Prowl just meowed. He was _totally_ going to spray this! How else was he going to tell this other tomcat how _very wrong he was!_

“Mine’s Orion. I’m one of the vet techs here.” They touched paws in that bizarre human greeting. “Come on back and I’ll show him to you and tell you what happened.”

The Hands grabbed Prowl by the waist, before he could finish lining up his aim for a _perfect_ mark, and hefted him like he was a sack of potatoes and Prowl yowled in protest at this _indignity!_

He quieted when he smelled Jazz though. Everything smelled like cats and dogs and bleach and suffering, but he could smell Jazz! And there was something _wrong_ with Jazz! He wiggled, using his back paw to brace against The Hands’ leg and squirmed out of her grip before she could tighten it. He hit the end of the leash and scratched his claws against the tile to _get to Jazz._

“Feisty.”

“He’s a siamese. Purebred.” The Hands was bragging about him, and usually that would be Prowl’s cue to go rub up against her legs to show how adorable he was so that they’d bring him to a female to mate, but _Jazz was more important!_ “Won three shows so far. He’s understandably high strung. And he really is pairbonded to Jazz.”

“I know Siamese are social but… that’s still unusual for a pair of males that aren’t related.”

“I know right!” She scooped Prowl up and started carrying him again, much to his (vocal) displeasure. “I thought Prowl was going to kill Jazz when he jumped in the box with the wet little ball of cute I’d just pulled from the rain gutter, but Prowl just licked him clean and started purring. I hadn’t been planning on keeping a stray, but after that I couldn’t get rid of him.”

Fine, fine, _fine._ **_But where was Jazz!_ **

“Here,” the male human brought them into a room that smelled like _more_ bleach and _more_ yuck, but also like Jazz! “He’s just coming out of sedation, so he’ll be a bit groggy. It’s a good thing you had him microchipped. Ratchet -- the vet -- was threatening to take him home. You should put a collar on him, if he’s going to be an outside cat.”

“He usually does. I thought he’d stopped ditching it a while ago, but apparently not. Aww… hello sweetie. Poor Jazzy’s still sleepy, yes he is!” She put Prowl down next to the silver tabby cat laying in the nest of blankets in the box, and Prowl immediately head-bumped the younger cat.

Eyes that, like Prowl’s, had never faded from their kitten blue, blinked open. “Hey fluff-fluff.”

“Don’t _call me that.”_ Prowl meowed, biting Jazz’s already tattered ear, just hard enough to sting. Immediately he licked it, to soothe the sting. He sniffed Jazz over. The tabby smelled heavily of strange humans and stinging wound-goop, and vet-yuck… especially his leg, which was covered from hip to paw with a strange, stiff, white thing. Prowl bumped it. It reminded him of the white things The Hands often put on Jazz when he came home after a fight, but it was hard. “What’s this?” he meowed. “Who’d you get in a fight with this time?”

“Not sure…” Jazz answered, purring miserably. “Don’t remember much.”

“Well we need to get this vet-yuck off your fur!” Prowl immediately started licking. Jazz's purr grew louder.

“Okay~” Jazz said with a sigh and fell back asleep. Poor kitten.

“...driver who hit him brought him in.” The male human was still meowing at The Hands, patiently waiting for the in-heat female to tell him it was time to mate. “It’ll be a while before he walks again, and he may never jump.”

“I understand. Let me get them in the carrier and I’ll write a check for the surgery. And thank you.”

Jazz was very, very asleep so Prowl looked at the two humans and yowled. “Just let him mate already!”

Both of the humans looked at him. The male laughed. “I don’t know what he’s saying, but he is saying it very insistently.”

The Hands showed her teeth. “Prowl is a very insistent cat. Bossy furball.” She blinked slowly.

Prowl blinked back. I love you too.

“Alright. Let get us all home. Merry Christmas, Orion!”

“Merry Christmas, Elita.”

.

.

.

Of course the first thing Jazz did when they got home was jump three feet in the air to get up on the bed. Cast and all.


	23. December Twenty-Third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: PULLING YOU IN FOR A KISS WITH A SCARF.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: Takes place in the same universe as my drabble [Here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8719240/chapters/20174422)

It’s not like either of them hadn’t already known how different they were when they started courting. Prowl was quiet; Jazz was loud. Prowl could stand perfectly still over a tactical readout of a battlefield for hours on end; Jazz couldn’t go three minutes without pacing. Still they had been determined to try. 

They were as different as ever with their creative endeavors as well. It wasn’t long after Jazz had started wearing his new doorwing jewelry that Prowl had started getting requests.  _ Everyone _ wanted something for their doorwings, chevrons, sensor horns or other protruding bits and bobs. Prowl would discuss the commission in detail, negotiate a price, get a down payment to cover the materials, then disappear into his quarters/studio for days of his off-time before emerging with the piece. Then he wouldn’t take another commission for several more days or weeks, giving himself time to recover and participate in other activities, like courting Jazz.

Jazz on the other hand hauled his knitting box everywhere and pulled it out whenever he had a free moment -- or sometimes when his moments weren’t technically free, but he was bored and needed to  _ do something _ anyway. When people asked him for something, he’d pull out one of his finished projects, they’d pick something and buy it right there. He didn’t take commissions, but he never seemed to run out of things to sell. Scarves became  _ really _ popular with the surviving Cybertronians. 

The first time Jazz had pulled out his knitting during a date, though, had caused some tension though.

“I’m enjoying the movie! When’d I say I wasn’t?”

Prowl glared at the box full of yarn and the needles and almost finished scarf in Jazz’s hands. “You’re not paying attention to it.”  _ Or me. _

“It’s just something to do with my hands,” Jazz insisted. “I’m watching the movie!”

Prowl  _ did _ know how much Jazz needed to move. Even movies he’d picked out, Jazz could barely sit still through. Prowl’s documentary on WWII airplane pilots had to be grating on Jazz’s nerve-wires. But he had sit remarkably still, leaning against Prowl, and knitting while he watched. Honestly Prowl wasn’t watching the movie; he’d thought that they’d end up doing  _ something else _ while they didn’t watch the movie together.

“I could think of something else to do with your hands,” Prowl said, instead of continuing to be mad. 

Jazz’s needles stilled as Prowl’s words sank in, then sped up again, finishing up the scarf in only a few minutes and snipping it free from the silver-silk ball of yarn in the basket.

With a smirk, Jazz twisted around on the couch to face Prowl and draped the scarf around his new courtmate’s neck. He smiled. “I never woulda figured you for the type to make out on a first date.”

“I never would have figured you for waiting.”

Jazz smiled and tugged on the scarf. “I’m not.”


	24. December Twenty-Fourth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I did that annoying thing where I put loads of smaller boxes inside one big box, and you’re getting really mad but you don’t know that the ring is in the smallest box. I can’t wait to see your face!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last prompt. MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!

Everyone was excited to see what Jazz had gotten this year.

It had shown up the day after Thanksgiving and sat there, arousing everyone’s curiosity for more than a _month._ And _no one’s_ curiosity was more aroused than Jazz’s himself. He was spotted on multiple occasions in the rec room, where the tree would eventually go, just staring at it.. The box was at _least_ big enough to fit Jazz himself in, in his alt form and no one knew who it was from. It just had _For Jazz_ written on one side, beneath the impeccable (huge) bow.

No “from” sticker could be found anywhere on the outside of the package. Jazz knew this. He’d checked. Multiple times.

The Box (yes, it had capital letters now) refused to give up its secrets.

That easily, Jazz insisted. He wasn’t done.

While The Box sat there, it was subjected to every single test Jazz could think of to find out it’s origins and contents. Shaking it was out. The thing was the size of an Autobot, weighed at least twice that, and Jazz might be able to pick up a comrade and help him off the battlefield in a pinch, but he was not Brawn. Picking The Box up far enough to give it a good shake was out.

Jazz gave up on shaking and turned to other methods of ferreting out The Box’s secrets.

By the time he’d stolen one of Ratchet’s medical scanners and subsequently been given a cease and desist order from Optimus, some of the ribbons were fraying and The Box had acquired a few scorch marks, but had remained frustratingly intact. Who knew fire resistant wrapping paper was a thing?

Up exactly at dawn on Christmas morning, Jazz didn’t wait until the others were up, he just dove in and started ripping paper away.

Two hours later, when the others on the _Ark_ wandered into the rec room, bleary, sleepy but eager (except Prowl, who was freshly polished, groomed, and as poised as he ever was), and Jazz was _still_ tearing paper and cardboard to get at the present within.

The rec room had been turned into a warzone. A one-mech war. Jazz vs The Box. And so far The Box was winning.

Boxes rather. Each layer Jazz ripped away revealed only another, smaller, brightly wrapped box and some scrap metal to give the thing weight. Jazz was NOT AMUSED.

(Everyone else was, however.)

Eventually though, people lost interest in watching Jazz cuss as he tore into _yet another_ neatly wrapped back and concentrated on their own presents.

Thirty minutes later, Jazz’s cry of triumph got everyone’s attention again.

Jazz finally, _finally,_ held not another box covering bright wrapping paper and ribbon, but a box of hand carved wood about the size of his own fist. Everyone watched avidly as Jazz carefully opened the _final_ barrier between himself and his mysterious present --

\-- And gasped as one as Jazz withdrew a traditional Polyhexian sensor-horn ornament. Meant to be inset and integrate into the horn’s armor, it was the sort of thing that once put on, could not be taken off. A request to bond.

Jazz held it, examined it. Gold plated titanium setting, the primary spark-shaped crystal was the same blue as Jazz’s visor, the smaller red spark-crystal nestled next to and intertwined with the larger crystal, it wasn’t quite a match for his stripes. Not that Jazz would expect them to. That represented the person asking him to bond…

There was a note inside the wooden box, but Jazz didn’t read it. He just let his optic band seek out the _only_ person this could be from and met Prowl’s hopeful optics.

_Yes._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Long Patrol](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9619061) by [WandersUnderStarlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandersUnderStarlight/pseuds/WandersUnderStarlight)




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